


The Queen of Winter

by MarieTurtle



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Fluff, One Shot, Sansa gets nice things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 16:09:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11924472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarieTurtle/pseuds/MarieTurtle
Summary: Ser Gendry proposes a new title for the Warden of the North.





	The Queen of Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr, thought I'd share with the fine folks of Ao3 since "Sansa has a happy ending AU crackships" are definitely a thing.

Ser Gendry Waters was many things: an unrepentant bastard (literally), a fine blacksmith, shit with a sword, but a warrior to rival his father with a hammer, and only seldom would he call himself a fool, as only a fool would find himself in Lady Sansa Stark’s presence and not find her attractive. Oh, she was beautiful, to be sure, and intelligent, savagely hilarious for those keen enough to catch her murmured barbs, and selfless in a way Gendry didn’t know a high-born could be.

There were a few moments in his life that stood out has profoundly foolish. When he’d refused to sell Ned Stark the bull helmet, that was one. Running off to join the Brotherhood without pausing to consider what they might want from a Baratheon bastard was another. One involved a beautiful kitchen maid and a series of indiscretions that almost turned him into Robert Baratheon reborn, a fate he considered worse than death. There was that thing with Rhaegal that Daenerys still teased him over. Jon was continuously insisting that his refusal to take the Baratheon name was foolish, but Gendry (and Daenerys) knew the last thing Westeros needed was another Baratheon. No, he was quite happy as a captain of the guard at Winterfell, a leader of the armies of the North.

His current crowning achievement as a fool took the shape of the tall, fiery-haired Lady of the North, with whom he had fallen hopelessly and irrevocably in love. She was the Warden of the North, practically a queen in her own right, commander of the Northern armies, protector of the Free Folk, his best mates’ sister, his liege, and in the past year had no demonstrable interest in courting despite Jon’s express approval that she remarry at her own discretion.

He had thought his feelings toward his mistress were harmless. An unrequited affection, the hopeless admiration of a knight for his lady, but he had been a profound fool. He should have known. He spent far too much time deep in conversation with her, giving and taking thoughts about how to better feed their people, how to better prepare for and handle the wights that still haunted the great stretches of forest and tundra of the North, often just reading or conversing over dinner.

But he didn’t know until it was too late.

It happened three months - three agonizing, glorious, torturous months - ago when Gendry failed to return from a hunt at dusk. His squire, a young Karstark with a better sword arm than Gendry, had lost control of his spooked horse and both horse and rider took a leg-breaking tumble into the snow. Gendry didn’t let the poor animal suffer long, but that left him with a wounded squire and a horse not large enough to carry a grown man and nearly-grown youth.

It wasn’t long before the smell of the animal’s blood brought at least a dozen wights stumbling out of the fading light. Gendry put his squire on his horse and sent them galloping back to the castle, and took off at a run himself, hoping either he’d make it back to Winterfell or meet reinforcements somewhere in between. He almost made it, getting within a half a league of those blessed walls, when he fucking tripped.

His foot caught on a root and he nosedived into the snow, introducing his face to another large root buried under the snow. His knee wrenched painfully and when he stood again, bringing up his hammer and turning to face the wights - at least twenty now - he couldn’t put weight on the injured leg. Out-fucking-standing. With blood warming down his cheek, he gripped the hammer, comforted by its familiar weight, and curled his lip and roared at the oncoming corpses. If he was to die, he would die on his feet, demolishing his enemies. At least he wouldn’t die on his back, fat and hated. In the distance, he thought he heard a wolf howl and let out a low laugh at his misfortune. Slow close, yet so far.

The howling got louder, but he was all eyes for the wight leading the pack. He shifted his weight so that he could swing without relying on his bum leg, flexed his hands around the handle, took a deep breath, and then-

A massive white blur of fangs and fur bombed out of his periphery, decimating the rotted wight. It was quickly followed by an equally large blur of grey and white ferocity barreling after her brother with gusto. Nymeria was more wild and took more pleasure in the hunt.

Gendry was so startled by the intervention, he nearly dropped his hammer. He whirled, crying out when he stumbled to his damaged leg. What he saw that night in woods outside Winterfell was the most magnificent thing he’d ever seen.

Sansa was galloping toward him on the back of her big dappled grey destrier, red hair flying loose and free, like a flame against the darkness and the startling white of the snow. The pack of halfbreed direwolves Nymeria and Ghost produced with Nymeria’s wild pack fanned out around her, growling and howling and snarling after their prey. They obeyed only Starks and select Northmen, Gendry among the few who could approach unharmed. Sansa was their queen. She didn’t even need to speak to command them, they always seemed to simply know. Others found it unsettling. Even Gendry had watched in askance more than once as one of these great, wild beasts took action merely by a glance from its mistress.

On this night, he truly appreciated the mysterious bond the Starks shared with these animals. If Daenerys was the mother of dragons, Sansa was the mother of direwolves, and tonight they rode in concert to defend her lost knight.

“C’mon!” Her gloved hand appeared in his face. He followed it up to her frantic, pale cheeks and overly bright eyes. He had been so dazed by the sight of her sweeping in with the wolves, he hadn’t registered that she was right in front of him. The destrier snorted and stamped her hooves, spooked by swarm of wights now thoroughly routed by the wolves. “Hurry! There could be more.” When she snapped an order, he obeyed.  

With a grunt of pain and effort, Gendry planted the head of the hammer into the ground and used it as a crutch to swing himself up onto the back of Sansa’s horse. He hefted the hammer up into one hand, and wrapped his other arm around her waist just in time for her to click her tongue and turn of the reins, launching into a gallop back to Winterfell.

She didn’t slow until they could see the fires in the towers. The wolves would follow when their work was finished. They always did. She pulled the destrier to a brisk walk and let the reins hang looser. Not too loose, of course, but they didn’t usually encounter trouble this close to the castle. Now that he no longer had to devote all of his focus and effort on staying mounted, he was extremely aware of the woman in his arm, not the great lady of the castle.

Sansa smelled like evergreen and winter rose, and just a hint of lemon. His hand splayed on her waist and he could feel the strength there, something he suspected but now confirmed.

“Are you alright?” Shit. She was looking at him over her shoulder. How long had she been looking at him?

“Fine,” his voice cracked. “I’m fine.”

Her eyebrows lifted and her eyes - Gods, had they always been that blue? - drifted to his leg and back. “You were limping.”

“Just twisted.” The words came out breathier than he intended. He tilted his head and studied her. “You came for me.”

Sansa blinked turned away. “I couldn’t very well leave the captain of the Winterfell guard to die.”

“No,” he spoke, stronger this time. “ _You_  came for me. Why did you come for me?”

Her head dropped. If he wasn’t mistaken, she was fumbling for an answer. “Lynara was already saddled, and with Arya gone-”

“Why was Lynara saddled at dinner time?”

“I don’t-” she whirled back on him, her cheeks flushed a very pretty pink, and bit her tongue. “You should be thanking me!”

The muscles in Gendry’s cheek twitched and he had to fight the smile. “Of course. Thank you, M’lady.’

In the ensuing three months, something changed. He couldn’t be sure, but it changed for her, too. They spent more time over dinner. He was invited every evening, now always at her side. He caught her gaze lingering on him, packed with questions.

She had taken to watching his training and practice with the other knights, soldiers, and squires in the yard. Every day, he could lift his eyes and find her standing on the walk. Her lips would tilt up, she would nod, and he would continue training.

On this day, his heart thudded and his pulse thundered, but not from the training. When it was all complete, before dropping his armor, he collected the gift he’d been weaving and bounded up the wooden steps to where she stood. His struggling breath and sweat betrayed him. Sansa had watched his approach and didn’t bother to hide her amusement.

“Ser Gendry, I am no expert, but I believe you are in suitable physical condition. I think running the walks in armor might be excessive. You’re going to shame the others.”

Gendry bit back his answering grin and kept his hands folded behind his back, holding his prize out of her view. “A good leader leads from the front, M’lady.”

Always with the sardonic expression, Sansa lifted her chin and returned her attention to the activity winding down in the yard. “I believe I made it clear that I would not have the captain of our guard die needlessly. Like leading a vanguard.”

“I wouldn’t dream of disappointing you,” he answered, sidling next to her and forcing his best impression of serious interest in the soldiers below. “At any rate, a man cannot suffer from more exercise, can he?”

“Ser Gendry, what are you doing up here?” She didn’t bother to hide her laughter.

His heart tripped and he steeled his nerve. “Well,” he cleared his throat and stepped to properly face her, “it has come to my attention that there has not been a proper tourney since the Queen’s War, and that knights win things for their ladies at these things.”

“You never saw a tourney in King’s Landing?” Her lips pursed in that face she made when she knew he was lying to her, and it was all a game.

“Of course, but my seat was a little different.” Gendry shrugged, then presented the item he’d worked so hard on. Gendry made many things in his life, mostly with a hammer and fire, but he was no slouch with his hands. He’d woven a crown of blue and white winter roses with pine, silver ribbon, and tiny crystals filched from the maester’s closet. For the first time since meeting her, Sansa was at a loss for words. As she took the crown, he rushed to explain himself. “I know being the Queen of Love and Beauty didn’t go so well for you last time. Since it doesn’t look like we’ll be going to any tourneys until winter is over, I thought perhaps you might like a new crown.”

She sniffed once, swallowed and lifted her glassy eyes up to him. “And what would I be the queen of, Ser Gendry?”

He hadn’t thought of that, but he frowned pensively, as if he was toying over so many options. He stepped down the walk until they were facing out over the forest. She followed him, holding the crown delicately. She had taken off her gloves to touch the winter roses. Her lips kept parting like she might speak, but then she’d close them again to marvel over the crown. When she rejoined his side, he said, “In King’s Landing, people spoke of winter with fear. They hated the idea of snow and cold, of no food, and dark days. But since I’ve been here, I think I love winter.” Her eyes widened in surprise. “Snow is beautiful. Every time it falls, I feel like I’m in a story. I never properly appreciated a good fire until I came here. The direwolves are amazing, they couldn’t have such a pack in the summer. Venison has never tasted so good as a fresh deer cooked over a fire here. The smell…I didn’t know cold had a smell, but I look forward to it. I feel alive here. Perhaps, you could be the Queen of Winter.”

Sansa studied him for a long time. Gendry held his breath, watching the mask slowly slip until she lifted the crown and placed it on her head. As he’d predicted when he wove it, the blue and green sat nicely against her hair. Perfectly, in fact. “The Queen of Winter?”

“Aye,” he licked his very dry lips and smiled down at her, “it suits you.”

“I believe it does.” She slid her arm into his and surveyed her snowy kingdom without waiting for his response. “Thank you, Gendry.”

“You’re welcome, M’lady.”

“Sansa.”

He let himself lean back into her where her small shoulder fitted next to his, and covered her bare hand looped into his arm with his gloved hand. “You’re welcome, Sansa.”


End file.
